“It’s beautiful.” Through a door, she glimpsed a bathroom with gleaming chrome fixtures and walls tiled in peach and cream. After placing her suitcase on a rack, the bell hop went through and turned on the taps.
“My heavens, the water’s coming from the ceiling!”
“Isn’t it neat?” Joseph didn’t try to hide his enthusiasm. “For most of our guests, this is their favorite amenity.”
“I’m going to take a shower immediately—maybe two.”
She gave him a five-dollar bill, and when he’d gone, twirled around the room. On the desk, she found a bucket with a split of Moët & Chandon champagne. A rose lay across her pillow.
Once settled, she called Rancor. “I can see why your brother banned you from the Bass hotels. You’d only detract from the ambience.”
“Yes, they are generally even more beautiful than I am.”
Charity let that pass. “Guess who met me at the airport?”
“Isabella. I told her to fetch you.”
“Well, you didn’t tell me. I have a rental.”
“Oh darn. I hope you didn’t insult her. We need her to find Finney for us.”
“I’m having dinner with her tonight. What do you want me to tell her?”
“She already knows everything I know. Why does she think you’re there?”
“I insinuated that I wanted a scoop. I think she believes me—why else would I traipse across the country?”
“Because you adore me, and you want to have my babies.”
“Guess again. George went along with this because he thinks there’s a good story in it. I hope he’s right.”
“It’ll work as the ostensible purpose.” He paused. “By the way, Jemimah Heartsleeve gave me a ring. She says Atalanta called her, hoping to present a united front. She also received a letter from Holdridge—he hates the phone.”
“Will she help?”
“No. She wants no part of this ‘hounding of poor Michael,’ as she calls it. She defended him fiercely, suggesting that authors have more reason to steal manuscripts than publishers. She made a cryptic comment about so-called serious writers lusting for more of the pie. I can’t be sure—knowing Jemimah—whether she meant actual pie or profits. Did I mention she’s a trifle overweight?” His tone turned sour. “She’s so successful, I don’t think she cares that much about one or two manuscripts.”
“There is a lot of piracy—you can’t stop it all.”
“I know, and I’m used to it. But I draw the line at my own publisher taking me to the cleaners. What if he decides to put his own stamp on my story?” She could almost hear him shudder. “It could ruin my entire reputation! Oh my God…I need a stiff drink. Did you remember to get some more whiskey?”
Up until the last question, Charity had been inclined to sympathize. “I’m going to get ready for my date.”
“Date? Oh, Isabella. Take her to Etta’s. She likes oysters.”
“Rancor? Hang up.”
“But—”
She hung up. An hour later the room phone buzzed. A rather breathless voice chirped, “Miss Snow? Miss Isabella Voleuse awaits you in the lobby.”
“I’ll be right down.”
Isabella—this evening in a ravishing black shift and three-carat diamond earrings—tapped her foot. “There you are. Do you have any preference as to food? I recall you like…hearty meals.”
One. Two. Three. “How about Etta’s? Mr. Waters says it has good oysters.”
“Etta’s? That’s near Pike Place Market. Not far.”
Isabella led her to a dark blue Lotus parked at a fire hydrant. A policeman stood near it, his ticket book out. When he turned and saw Isabella, he dropped the book and caught himself just before saluting. “This your car, miss?”
Isabella drifted over to him. Standing close, she cooed, “Yes, it is, Officer. Is there a problem?”
The poor man’s chest collapsed. He burbled, “No…no…not at all. Beautiful…car. Beautiful car. Just admiring it.” He took a deep breath and brought his voice down to a normal level. “You might want to consider moving it away from the hydrant. You never know when there might be a fire.”
Isabella laughed gaily. “In Seattle? Nothing’s dry enough to burn. But we’ll take your advice, Officer. Thank you so much. Charity?”
Oh, so it’s “we” all of a sudden? “Coming.”
They drove the few blocks to the market and parked in a garage. As they walked down the street to the restaurant, a light rain began to fall. Umbrellas went up all around them like rabbits out of a chorus line of magicians’ hats. They ran to the entrance. Isabella entered first, for which Charity was grateful. Various cries and ejaculations indicating feverish adoration came from within, and they were led to a table in the window by a serially bowing maître d’. “Is this adequate? Would you prefer another table, mademoiselle? Can I get you a cocktail?”
He didn’t seem to notice Charity until she cleared her throat. “May I sit down?”
“Oh, yes, mademoiselle. You are…with the lady?” She could swear he almost asked if she were the “lady’s” maid.
“Yes, I am. And I’d like a vodka gimlet, straight up.”
He didn’t write it down but gazed at Isabella. “And for you, mademoiselle?”
“I think…yes. A champagne cocktail. Thank you so much, Antoine.”
Charity watched her. She actually fluttered her eyelashes at him. Gross.
When they’d been served the drinks, Isabella took a dainty sip and put her drink down. “Have you been to Seattle before?”
“No. It seems rather dark.”
“Well, it is winter. The summers here are quite pleasant.”
“So you are based here?”
“Yes. I worked for HHR Press as the editor-in-chief. I edited most of the top-name writers, including Rancor.”
“I see. So if Michael Finney is on the lam, you’re out of a job.”
She shook her head with regret. “Indeed I am. But”—she bent toward Charity and whispered—“I’m thinking of going into business for myself.” She sat back as the waiter opened her menu for her. “I’ll have the oysters, please. A dozen. And perhaps a bowl of chowder. How about you, Charity?”
Charity had had a moment to absorb the prices and squeaked, “Just the soup, please.”
“A bowl or a cup?”
“A c-cup.”
Isabella smiled, a feline gleam in her blue eyes. “Shall we have wine?”
Charity gulped. “A glass of…” Her eye went rapidly down the list “…the house Pinot Grigio.” Between Rancor and Isabella, I’m going to have to take out a loan.
After dinner, Isabella dropped Charity off at her hotel and waved gaily through the mist. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
The message light blinked on the hotel phone in her room. She pressed it. She could barely make out Rancor’s voice through the static. “Charity? I have a bead on Finney. Call me.”
Instead, she took a second shower, letting the warm water cascade over her shoulders. Then she called room service. After a turkey sandwich and glass of wine, she went to bed.
Jet lag woke her at midnight. She pulled the phone over and dialed the number Rancor had left, not surprised to see it was the land line in her apartment. “What’s up?”
“Charity? Why are you calling? It’s…” She heard some rustling. “It’s three in the morning! I knew you to be thoughtless. I didn’t think you cruel.”
“You called me, Rancor.”
“I did? Oh. Well. Guttersnipe got a text from Finney. I want you two to try and catch him tomorrow. Or rather, today.”
“Where?”
“There’s a tugboat race down by the wharf this afternoon. The hero in Bernie’s new book…well, if you could call him that. Bernie’s heroes tend to be as lugubrious as he is and twice as aggrieved…Where was I?”
“Bernie’s hero.”
“Oh yes. He’s a tugboat captain, and Finney said he’d take pictures for him.”
“
Why would Finney do a favor for one of the authors he’s ripped off?”
“Ah, that’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question, isn’t it?”
Chapter Fourteen
Flying Fish and Wild Geese
“Charity? It’s Isabella. I know where Michael will be today.”
Let’s see how good her sources are. “Where?”
“He promised Bernie Guttersnipe he’d take pictures of the tugboat races this afternoon. I’m sure we can catch him on the wharf.”
Hmm. “Okay.”
“I’ll pick you up at noon.”
At twelve o’clock sharp, the concierge buzzed her room. “Miss Voleuse is here.”
This time Isabella wore a beautifully cut emerald green wool suit and matching bag. Charity was pretty sure the heels were Jimmy Choos. Gee, I wonder what she wears when she has money.
The woman waved gaily. “Hurry! The races start in forty-five minutes.” She drove through the narrow streets of Seattle like a demon. Pedestrians and cars melted out of her way. They parked and walked down the hill to the entrance to Pike Place. Isabella checked her watch. “We have time. Let’s walk through the market rather than the street. It’ll be fun.” She smiled happily.
They pushed through the crowds into a covered area. Before them, stacks of glistening silver trout and salmon, piles of gray shrimp, and crab legs as long as Tina Turner’s legs lay in ice-filled bins. As Charity approached, a fish about a foot long went sailing through the air right before her nose. She heard the yell a second too late. “Opa! Watch out.” The fish came sailing back the other way, smacking the top of her head. A young man in a red-splotched vinyl apron ran to her. His black eyes snapped with laughter, but his tone was solicitous. “Are you all right, ma’am?”
She wiped at the brine running down her temple. “I guess so. What on earth are you doing?”
He backed away, seemingly perplexed by the question. Isabella waited until an audience had gathered before taking Charity’s hand and confiding in a ringing mezzo-soprano, “That’s right, this is your first time out of…where do you come from? Alabama? Appalachia? It’s part of the tradition here at Pike Place. Seattle has such an abundance of seafood that the boys started tossing fish at each other. It’s a test of skill.”
“But aren’t they slippery?”
Isabella rolled her eyes. “That’s why it’s a test. Sort of like catching a greased pig.”
Charity thought it all seemed rather adolescent. And not really good for business. I mean, who’d buy a fish that’s been hurled around like a frisbee?
Isabella nudged her a little too hard. “Come on.”
They entered a second section—this one filled with vegetables. Charity recognized the tomatoes and lettuces, but the hundreds of types of mushrooms stumped her. Beyond them, stringy things, queerly shaped squashes, and hairy brown objects were piled high, little signs attached. She read, “Lotus Root, 45¢/lb,” and “Fu Qua, 25¢ each.”
They moved on to the fruit section, full of objects equally exotic. People—mainly Asian—jostled her. Charity stopped at a fruit juice stand and bought a cup of honeydew melon juice. When she looked around, Isabella had disappeared. “Isabella?”
The press seemed to thicken around her. She stood uncertainly. An Indian man followed by two large Indian women in saris brushed past her, spinning her around. “Isabella?” No response.
Panic swept over her. She couldn’t breathe. I have to find an exit. I have to get out of here. She fought her way toward a red neon sign that flashed “Western Avenue,” finally emerging onto a cracked and broken sidewalk. She sucked air into her aching lungs and fought for composure. After a minute, she felt steady enough to look around her. Across the cobblestone lane a street performer juggled hoops. A man in chef’s whites strode down the street carrying a tray of bread on his head. Charity peered back through the market entrance. No Isabella. Nothing looked familiar. Should I start walking or stay in one place? She decided to do a bit of each. She walked a block, hoping she was going in the right direction, then halted for a few minutes. At the end of the market lay a small park. People sat on the grass eating or gazing out at the bay. In the center rose two totem poles. She went to the iron fence and looked down. Far below lay the port. In the distance, tugboats tooted and chugged away from the pier.
How on earth do I get down there? A man directed her to a stair that took her three flights down, spitting her out on a busy highway. Five lanes lay between her and the port. The tugboats were gone, but a fireboat edged close to the pier and anchored. All at once, it turned on its hoses. Jets of water spurted up fifty feet, the streams crisscrossing each other in a beautiful display. It reminded her of a picture she’d seen once of the Fountain of Trevi. She scanned the area. Still no sign of Isabella. If she’s anywhere, it will be the docks. She crossed at a light and made her way toward the water, fighting her way through a mob of people who surged toward her. Finney was going to take pictures of the races. She peered at the men who passed her, but every single one had a camera either swinging from his neck or in his hand. She tried to remember Rancor’s description of his publisher. Balding. Short? It’s no use. She couldn’t find Finney without Isabella.
She turned back to the hill, wondering what to do. Her cell phone rang. “Charity? Where the hell are you? I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”
“I’m on the pier. Where did you go? I lost you in the fruit section.”
“I’m still on Western Avenue. I’ll wait for you up here.”
“Don’t you want to come down? Isn’t Finney supposed to be here?”
“It’s too late now. The races are over. He’ll have gone.”
Disappointment flooded Charity’s brain. I just want to find him and go home. Isabella is a really, really poor substitute for Rancor. “All right, meet me at the top of the stairs.”
“Will do.”
Isabella greeted her with a kiss on both cheeks. “Next time, hold my hand. This is a big scary city.”
Charity wasn’t sure if she were joking or not.
“Do you want some lunch?”
Ulp. She swallowed hard. “Maybe a hot dog or something.”
“Oh, we can do better than that.” Charity listened to the sound of bankruptcy bells tolling as Isabella led her to a little hole in the wall. They slipped in. Behind a high counter, sweaty, thick-armed women shouted orders. Isabella bought Tuscan chicken paninis while Charity got a couple of beers from the cooler, and they went to sit on a bench in the park.
Across the street, a line of people snaked down the block. “What’s going on over there?”
Her companion gave the crowd a quick glance. “The line? It’s for Starbucks. That one is supposed to be the original store. People come from all over the world to have their picture taken in front of it.” She snickered, not a pleasant sound. “Poor saps don’t know it’s not actually the original. The first one opened in 1971 on Western Avenue in a building that was demolished five years later.” She took a swig from her can, not a pleasant sight.
Charity tried the beer. “Why, it’s good!”
Isabella wiped her mouth with a paper napkin, leaving the rose-colored lipstick annoyingly unsmudged. “It is, isn’t it? Seattle has several micro-breweries. And some wonderful vineyards. You should visit them while you’re here.”
“Do you think we’ll ever find Mr. Finney?”
Taking a tiny bite of her sandwich, Isabella said slowly, “We’ll have to eventually. I’ll spend this afternoon following up leads.”
“Oh. In that case maybe I will do some sightseeing.”
“I’ll give you a call later today then. Finished?”
Better leave some for my supper. Charity put the rest of her sandwich back in the bag. “Yes.”
As she reached the hotel, a cold sun managed to peep through the fog. She shivered. Mr. Waters looked up. “Oh, Miss Snow. You look chilled. Why don’t you go through to the library and sit by the fire. I’ll have Joseph bring you a hot chocol
ate. Or would you prefer tea?”
“Tea would be nice.” She found the room he indicated, decorated like an English study with an oriental rug, over-sized leather chairs, and a fireplace. The Basses certainly do up a hotel rather well. She pulled a quilt over her and curled up on the cushion.
She didn’t know how long she’d slept. The sky outside was still overcast. I wonder if they ever get an actual downpour here, or does the rain just dribble you to death?
The concierge came in. “Miss Snow? You’re wanted on the house phone.”
Instead of the yearned-for Rancor, she heard George’s gravelly voice. “How’s it going?”
“Not too good. We missed Finney today. Although, on the bright side, I’ve had a close encounter with one of the odder customs of Seattle.”
“Oh?”
She told him about the fish tossing.
“Charity, you’re supposed to be working, not playing with your food. If you’re hoping to get a discount on day-old fish, you don’t need to. You have an expense account.”
“I do?”
“I’m sorry.” His voice was deceptively offhand. “Did I forget to mention it? A hundred-dollar-a-day allowance, thanks to Arlo’s generosity. I’m not paying for the room because Bass said he had that covered. Evidently his family owns the hotel.”
Thank God. I won’t have to subsist on soup. “Yes, his family owns a string of specialty hotels in Maine, Florida, and elsewhere.”
George sniffed. “Then why is he hitting me up for cash all the time?”
“It’s just his way of showing affection.”
“Hmmph. Back to Finney. Do you have a description of the man?”
“Only what Rancor told me. Short and balding.”
“Could be me.”
“Funny, that’s not how I picture you.”
“Suck-up. Well, keep me posted.” He hung up.
Charity had left the desk and started toward the elevator when her cell phone dinged. The sultry tones of a seductress—no doubt the fruit of years of elocution lessons—came through the line. “It’s me, Isabella.”
“Any word?”
“Yes! We’re in luck. I discovered that he’s heading to Whidbey Island tomorrow for a concert and wine tasting.”
The Pit and the Passion Page 20